No Name That Isn't Mine
by Skalidra
Summary: Despite the threats to his friends' lives, Robin remains willful and disobedient at a level that Slade finds irritating rather than charming. So, he decides to spirit Robin away to a more secure base, where he can focus on slowly, carefully, breaking down 'Robin' and recreating him as 'Apprentice'. However long that takes.
1. Chapter 1

So, a few quick notes. The eventual pairing is Slade/Dick, but there's none of it in the first couple chapters. There's enforced nudity in these chapters, but it's not sexual (I swear). Slade is a uh... evil son of a bitch, but not a pedophile? Also all research I could find said Dick/Robin is like 16 at this point, believe it or not. If that makes you feel better. (It made me feel better.)

Anyway! This is another prompt; number 47, 'Creation'. I got reminded how hard I shipped Sladin and, well, this happened. For those of you trapped down in this pairing with me, welcome. Tags to be updated as we go because _oh boy_.

 **Warnings** this chapter for: Casual violence, non-sexual nudity, threats of discipline, and some very fucked up power dynamics.

* * *

He hates the word the second Slade suggests it, hates the way it feels on his tongue when he drops to his knees — trying to _prove_ he's not going to fight — and grinds out, "Yes, Master."

It feels like slime in his throat, and he has to clench his hands, has to steal a glance at the threat of the screens on the wall before he can force himself not to get up and go after Slade again. Before he can make himself stay still as Slade steps forward and slides a hand through his hair, tugging enough to force him to look up. There's no opening, and if he makes a move before there's an opening…

His own situation be damned; he _won't_ endanger the lives of his teammates just to protect his own pride. Not like this.

"Better," Slade allows, voice as smooth as silk despite the crack running down his mask. Lowered again from the shouts of earlier, and the snarl of a threat he knows Slade will follow through on without a moment's hesitation. "So you _can_ be taught. Well, that must have been a relief when your last mentor figured it out. What did he threaten you with to keep you in line, Robin? A little violence? A little _discipline?_ "

He bares his teeth, clenches his hands a little tighter. "That's not your business!"

Slade backhands him, and if not for the other hand in his hair he would have sprawled to the floor from the force of it. Instead his head snaps to the side, the metal of Slade's gauntlet catching his lip and splitting it open near the corner of his mouth. He grunts in pain, sucking in a sharp breath afterwards to try and reorient himself. Which only works until Slade drags him up a half a foot from the floor by his hair, too high for him to kneel so he ends up awkwardly trying to balance with just the toes of his feet.

"Wrong again, Robin. Everything in that pretty head of yours is mine, now. You'd best get used to the idea; I _will_ be making use of all that knowledge."

He glares, fighting not to swipe his tongue out to collect the blood he can feel beading on his lip. "I won't betray the identities of my teammates," he snarls, and Slade gives a low sound of amusement.

"I could not care less about your 'friends' secret lives, Robin. Though, I did not expect you to maintain quite as much of your attitude once I threatened to kill those you care for." Slade tugs at his hair, but then lets go and he drops back down to his knees. "I expected you to maintain your fire, but this willful disobedience? Well, that isn't helpful, now is it? I believe we need to break you of that habit."

He pushes up, getting to his feet to face Slade head on. There's still too much height in between them, but it feels better to be standing, where he can at least try and dodge if he needs to. Not that that option is a good one either, not with the axe Slade has hanging over the necks of all his friends.

"You may be able to make me obey you, Slade," he grinds out, "but you can't make me loyal. The _second_ you give me a chance, I'll put you in a prison where you belong."

Slade reaches forward, gloved hand gripping the side of his throat, thumb pressing his chin upwards. "I believe you'll try, Robin. Now, have you already forgotten what we agreed on? Or are you asking for discipline already?"

He grits his teeth, fights not to strike at Slade. He'll _lose_. "No, Master."

"You'll learn," Slade murmurs, and then flicks his head to the side as he lets go, leaving him staring at the ground as Slade strides away. "Come with me," is called over one armored shoulder.

He looks up at the screens one last time, and then swallows and turns to follow Slade.

* * *

The drugs are the first clue that things are about to change. When he starts to get dizzy — after a mockery of a dinner where Slade sits just to his left and makes small, cutting comments he struggles to ignore — breath becoming labored as the world spins a bit, he immediately knows something is wrong.

"Easy," Slade says, as he slumps back against the chair, his head falling back. A gloved hand cups the back of his skull, bringing his head back up as Slade moves closer. "Just a necessary precaution, Robin. Give in; you have my word nothing will happen to you while you rest."

"Your word's—" He has to stop, gasp in a breath, clench his hands against the chair to try and stay stable. " _Useless_ ," he finishes, in a breathless snarl.

Slade pulls him over, and he's helpless to resist as he's lifted and gathered in against that armored chest. For just a moment, it feels all too familiar, and the chest he's pressed against could just as easily be black and broader, head resting near the emblazoned bat instead of the mix of orange and black.

Slade's moving, carrying him somewhere, and weakly, he manages to protest, "No. Slade, no."

"Sleep," Slade orders, and deep in his gut he hates that the rich, smooth voice isn't all that different from his real mentor's, absent the growl. "We can begin when you've woken, Apprentice."

His eyes slide closed without his permission, and he can only cling to the sound of footsteps and the rush of his own breath for so long before the darkness sucks him under.

It feels like only a moment before he's waking again, having to claw his way out of the clinging strands of sleep as hard as he fought to stay out of it in the first place. He manages to drag his eyes open, staring at dull grey concrete for a minute or two before he can get the strength to pull his arms underneath him and start to push up. His limbs don't want to cooperate, but he breathes through the lingering weakness and forces himself up to his knees before looking around.

It's a small, square room that looks more like a cell than anything else. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same flat grey of concrete, the single door what looks like iron with two panels that look like they slide open, one about a foot from the ground and the other near the average height of an adult's eyes. There's a small cot in one corner, flat on the floor with a simple white set of sheets, and a bucket in the opposite one that he instantly hates the apparent purpose of.

He's still dressed in Slade's idea of a costume, and a quick pass over his limbs with his hands doesn't reveal anything that's oddly sore or feels wrong. Maybe, Slade might actually have been telling the truth.

Clearly they've moved, or at least he's been put in a room in Slade's complex that he's never been in before, but nothing else seems to be different.

Which is of course when the door opens — there's a _heavy_ sounding clunk that must be the lock — and Slade steps inside. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling over but rebalancing and clenching his hands, glaring up at his captor. The door is still open, but Slade's in the way of it and he doesn't like his chances of escaping right at this moment.

"Awake at last," Slade drawls. "Welcome to your new home, Apprentice. It's a bit bare, I know, but if you're good we can see about upgrading it with a few more rudimentary comforts."

He bares his teeth, refusing to look away from Slade. "You think you can demoralize me with a _room?_ "

He gets the impression Slade is smiling, further confirmed by the soft, satisfied noise that the older man makes. "You'd be surprised what a room can do, but no, not really. We're here to lay out a few ground rules for your stay here; are you prepared to listen?"

He doesn't answer, and Slade steps forward and grabs a handful of his hair, wrenching his head up a few inches. He grits his teeth, and _doesn't_ lash out like he wants to. Instead he snarls, unwilling to back down even though he knows it's the smart move. It's probably the _right_ move, but Slade is just… _God_ , he's never wanted to hurt someone as much as Slade.

"I'll take that as a yes then. First rule, you will do whatever I order you to, and answer any questions I ask you as honestly as you're capable of. If you hesitate, if you disobey, if you fight me, you will be punished. If you are good, you will be rewarded." He bites his tongue not to snap at that, as Slade releases his hair. "Second, disregard your friends. They will not save you, and they are no longer of any concern to you."

"You've got their lives in your hand!" is what bursts out. "How can you expect me to forget them when every time I _breathe_ you're threatening to kill them?!"

"Which brings us to rule three," Slade continues, as if he didn't even speak. "If you manage to leave this place, or to send any sort of message to alert them, your friends will die. However, anything else you do will not fall on them. You are allowed to fight me, Apprentice; in fact I expect you to, until you are taught to know better. You will be punished for it, but your friends' lives will not be the cost. Is that clear?"

He stares, and then Slade is moving and pure reaction isn't enough to get him out of the way. Slade's fist slams into his face and he feels the sick shift and crunch of his nose breaking as he reels backwards, gasping in pain. One of his hands rises to cradle his face, but he forces himself to look up and keep Slade in his sights.

Slade settles back, standing tall and calm once again. "I asked you a question, Apprentice. Am I clear?"

He swallows, feeling the blood start to trickle down beneath his hand. "Yes," he manages.

Slade snaps into movement again, one step forward and pivoting and he tries to jump back but Slade's legs are longer than he realized and a foot slams into the center of his chest, flinging him backwards. He crashes into the wall, the breath knocked right out of him and he _tries_ to get it back as Slade strides forward, grabbing him by the throat and pinning his head back against the concrete.

"What am I to you?" Slade demands, fingers digging in enough to make his already hard-won breath catch.

"Master," he gasps. "Yes, _Master_."

Slade holds him for a moment longer, and then lets go. "Progress already," he mocks. "Now strip down, boy."

He stiffens. " _What?_ "

This punch hits his gut, and he doubles over, gagging until Slade grabs his throat and slams him into the wall again. He's struggling to breathe, eyes squeezing shut for a moment so he can try and gather himself. It doesn't really work.

"Strip down," Slade repeats, voice a lower hiss. "You don't have the right to question me."

He shudders, shakes his head in silent refusal as he grabs at Slade's arm with his hands. He can see Slade's single eye narrow, feel the fingers on his throat tighten. Slade drags him up the wall until he's hanging in the air, feet kicking uselessly as he tries to lift himself a few inches on Slade's arm to keep some of the pressure off his throat.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go, boy. I'm going to let you go, you're going to strip all of your armor and clothing off, and then I'm going to punish you for this refusal. If you don't, then I will tear it off of you myself, before we get to a much _worse_ punishment. Either way, I will get the outcome I want. Do you understand?"

Slade drops him, and his knees almost buckle underneath him as he hits the floor, having to press back against the wall to keep his footing. He has to drag in a rough lungful of air before he can gasp, "Yes, Master."

"Good." Slade's hand snaps out, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward, towards the center of the room. "Now, you won't be needing _this_ anymore."

One of Slade's hands grabs his hair, pulling his head back, and the other goes for his face. He realizes the target a moment too late to stop Slade from hooking fingers underneath the edge of his mask and peeling it off his face.

" _No_ ," he gasps, trying to twist away, trying to close his eyes to preserve some tiny bit of his anonymity.

Slade lets go, and he can hear the slight sound of his mask hitting the floor. "Relax, I may know your name but I have as little interest in your identity as those of your teammates'. Now, have you made your decision, boy?"

He opens his eyes, raising his gaze to Slade's. There's a knot in his stomach, a sick twist that he wishes he could attribute to the punch. What does it really matter? His face is bare, Slade already _knows_. What difference does more skin make, apart from whatever satisfaction he can get out of being stubborn, before Slade makes him pay for it? Is that worth it? Shouldn't he save his strength for whenever Slade gives him a real chance?

His breath catches, and he jerks his gaze away from Slade's and brings his hands together, slowly working the catches to the metal vambraces open. It's awkward, still unnatural because this costume works differently than his Robin one and he hasn't adjusted yet. He doesn't know it as well. It takes a bit of work to get the vambraces off, and he grits his teeth — which makes his nose throb — when he drops them to the ground to his right and they clang against the ground.

His belt is next, despite how uncomfortable it makes him to give up pretty much his only source of weaponry. Slade watches impassively as he removes the pieces of metal from the costume, stripping it down to just the reinforced undersuit. Then, when he reaches to pull off the gloves, Slade moves. He freezes up for a moment, but Slade doesn't reach out to touch him, just slowly starts to circle around like he's being examined. He swallows, disliking the feeling, but continues to strip the undersuit off.

"Without this," Slade starts, as he reaches back and starts to pull the zipper down the line of his spine, "you're nothing. Not Robin—" Slade's fingers brush the back of his neck, and he flinches "—not _Dick Grayson_ , not my apprentice. You haven't earned the right to an identity yet, and until you behave, you won't."

His hands are frozen where they've peeled the suit off his back and to his shoulders, fingers curling tight into the stiff fabric. "You— That's not how life _works_. You can't—"

Slade cuffs the back of his head hard enough to make him stumble forward, and then grabs the back of his neck in steel fingers and drags him back again. "When you can be trusted to obey, boy, then you can have a name again. That is how _your_ life works, from now on. You will earn everything you receive, or you will go without. You are not entitled to _anything_ ; you are simply mine, and how I choose to treat you relies entirely on how you behave. I imagine you'll learn the ropes soon enough, pet. You've proven adaptable before."

He swallows, the idea clicking into place that this is really happening. That this is… This isn't a joke. Not that he thought it was a joke, but he didn't… He expected torture, maybe, or the same kind of enforced obedience under the threat of death to his friends. Not being stripped of his clothes and his name, and being offered the _choice_ to obey. This isn't…

His breath is coming sharp, too sharp and distantly he knows that. He's had enough training to recognize when he's messing up.

Slade's fingers squeeze the back of his neck and then let go, lowering to rest over the bare skin of his right shoulder. "Accept it," Slade murmurs. "I know it's difficult, but you'll feel better when you submit to your new role, pet. To me."

He snaps.

He's whipping around, lashing out before he can think it through and releasing a cry of wordless rage from the feeling exploding in his chest. Slade steps back, out of range as his fist whistles past, and then retaliates by jabbing rigid fingers into his exposed side, making him fold in on the sharp burst of pain. He gasps, before Slade is grabbing him by the front of his suit, wrenching him forward and then _flinging_ him back. He flies through the air, hits the ground hard on his back and skids along the concrete until he comes to a stop partially on his side, all the way across the room.

He forces his head up, pulls himself in and struggles to push himself up as Slade starts to cross the room, each step slow and measured. He glances around for something, _anything_ , and realizes that Slade's flung him partially into the open doorway. He doesn't take the time to think about it, knows he _can't_ , before he's scrambling up and back through the door, reaching forward to grab the door.

Slade's eye narrows, and he snaps, "You'll _suffer_ for it, boy."

Somewhere, he finds the voice to spit back, "Not if you're locked in here!"

He drags the door closed, slamming it shut and then quickly finding the handle for the lock and wrenching at it until it falls into place with that same heavy clunk. Then he runs, not waiting to see if Slade will actually be stuck in his own cell.

The cell is one in a corridor of several, and he makes a break for the exit to the corridor, slamming through the door and just _moving_. He has too much respect for Slade's skills to think that one heavy door is going to contain him, and the need to run, to get _away_ , overrides all other thought. The corridors all look the same; dull grey concrete with doors that vary between steel and wood, some of them with small plaques next to them that he doesn't risk slowing down enough to read. He hits three dead ends, and starts to panic, before he runs into a corridor that's wider than the rest.

There's a door at the end of it, circular and imposing with a wheel handle, and he sprints to it. He grabs the handle, struggles to turn it and manages that much, feeling it start to give under his desperate strength. He can hear the grinding of whatever mechanisms are there coming loose, and when he pulls it actually starts to come open. He can see light from the crack, shifts enough to catch a glimpse of nearly blindingly white snow.

Then static _screams_ in his ears, and he shouts and jerks back, hands going to his ears as he trips, falls, hits the ground on his back.

" _Didn't remember you were wearing these, did you, boy?"_ Slade's voice says in his ears, still sounding calm and amused.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and his chest heaving as he tries to breathe, tries to recover from the disorientation of that noise in his ears.

" _Now, you haven't forgotten our arrangement, have you? What did I say would happen if you left?"_ He squeezes his eyes shut, remembers Slade's promise and bites his tongue not to curse, not to just curl into a ball and scream at the _frustration_ of having his freedom so close. " _That's right. Now, get up and close the door, boy. Take one step outside, and all your friends will die in agony. I'm sure you don't want to be responsible for that."_

He forces himself up, bows his head for a moment while he's sitting just to shake, though whether it's in fear or fury or pain he doesn't know. Then he gets to his feet, refuses to look at that open crack when he pushes the door shut and turns the wheel until it won't go any further, until the door's locked again.

Then there's a hand gripping the back of his neck, and he jerks and yelps in surprise when it shoves him forward against the door. He flails a bit, but the way that hand squeezes is unmistakably Slade and he freezes in place, pressing his hands against the metal of the door.

"That was good," Slade murmurs, easing the grip on his neck. "We can work up to teaching you true obedience, now that I know you're capable of it. However, it looks like we'll have to start out with the discipline you've earned, to stop you from trying to pull a trick like that again. Firstly, you have a job to finish, pet. The rest of your clothes, _now_. Trust me when I say that you don't want to add to what punishment you're already due."

Haltingly, he lifts his hands and pulls at the suit. He keeps his forehead against the metal as a grounding point, closing his eyes as he drags the suit off of his arms and then pushes it down off of his hips. He shudders when he presses his hands against the door, pinning the suit beneath one foot to pull his other free, and then repeating the process until he can kick it aside. He's trembling, but he's not sure whether it's being exposed, _naked_ in too many ways, in front of Slade, or simply because it's cold in the corridor. He doesn't know how to figure that out.

Slade lets him stand there for several long moments, and then slowly pulls him back from the door. He doesn't have any choice but to go, even as Slade uses the grip on the back of his neck to turn and steer him back down the corridor.

"We're going to go take care of the issue of your punishment," Slade tells him, staying conversational. "Then, if you take it well enough, we can see about getting around to teaching you what your new life will entail. Do you think you can take your punishment without struggling, pet?"

He shivers, staring at the ground but managing to get out, "No, Master."

Slade's hand squeezes his neck again, almost like it's supposed to be a comfort. "You'll learn, pet. I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

Hey! So uh, welcome back to _this thing_. This monstrosity of a creation. Haha, I can only say that I hope you enjoy it (because I definitely enjoyed writing it).

 **Warnings** for this chapter include: abuse, brainwashing, and non-sexual nudity of a teenager. Nothing explicit.

* * *

It's impossible to keep track of time, is the first thing he figures out. Whatever kind of bunker Slade is keeping him in, there aren't any windows, and no clocks as far as he can find — except the stopwatches Slade uses to time him sometimes. Everything is grey concrete and steel, muted colors and silence and the only thing that breaks all of it up is Slade. Sometimes it feels like Slade's visits are days apart, and sometimes it feels more like mere hours. The meals are similarly spaced out, sometimes long enough between that his stomach aches with hunger, and others so close to each other that he isn't even hungry, though he quickly figures out that if he shuns a meal, the next won't come until he's nearly ready to plead for it.

It's all bland, nearly tasteless stuff, but it keeps him alive and he's not stupid enough to complain about that. He's almost positive if he complained, he wouldn't get fed at all. At least not until Slade had the satisfaction of making him beg for it, however long that took.

Things can always get worse, is the second thing he figures out.

If he's not in his cell then Slade is by his side, guiding him between rooms with a hand at the back of his neck or his shoulder, voice nearly always calm and collected, more than often amused. He learns to fear the times when Slade's voice rises, learns to shy away because that means anger, and anger means violence. Not the systematic, precise violence of 'discipline' — when that just means pain, and he prefers the pain to the humiliation — but outbursts of it if that anger is aimed his direction, or he's in the way.

Slade breaks his left wrist, two ribs, and three fingers before he learns that lesson. Two more ribs before he learns how to slip into the sort of complete surrender that will stay Slade's hand.

At first, Slade only puts him through drills. One after another until his muscles burn and he can barely stand, before feeding him — most of the time he's too worn out to even care that Slade makes him eat off a plate on the floor instead of a table — and then leading him back to his cell. More times than he's comfortable with, his legs give out under him and Slade ends up carrying him back, leaving him on the cot with a parting drift of fingers through his hair and a murmured word or two about how well he's done that day. Or how badly.

After a period of time he can't name and isn't comfortable thinking about, Slade starts sparring with him sometimes. It's painful, taxing, but it stirs a kind of joy in his chest to be fighting again, even if it's at such a disadvantage and he always loses. In a way, the spars become bright points in the haze of pain, exhaustion, and fear his life has become. Slade will point out his flaws, correct his form, but never criticize him unless he's done something genuinely stupid. And the ruffles of his hair, the touches to his jaw and the murmured praise whenever he pulls off something impressive or lands a solid hit, those…

He can't bring himself to hate how good those make him feel.

His anger slips from his grasp, temper unable to survive the pain it brings whenever he lets it show. He buries it, surrenders to Slade's demands and accepts the relatively gentle backhands as simple reminders of his place when he makes mistakes. He'll take those backhands over true discipline any day, and he _tries_ to take those reminders to heart and watch himself to make sure whatever he's done wrong doesn't happen again.

But the silence, when Slade isn't there, eats at him. It _eats_ at him and he doesn't know how to combat the loneliness that slowly sinks into his bones. Doesn't know any way to fix it but to speak one day, at the end of Slade's training session while the older man is putting away the wooden staves they were using.

"Master?" he dares to ask, and Slade puts the staves up on the hooks they're stored on before turning to him.

"Yes, boy?" Slade says, not showing any irritation at his bravery, which makes it easier.

He swallows, struggles to hold his ground because as usual, his legs feel one step from collapsing underneath him, and he's coated in sweat. "Can I stay, Master?" His voice comes out quiet, almost a plea.

Slade approaches, single eye narrowed behind that ever-present mask, and he almost drops to his knees in automatic reaction to that look. "What do you mean?" Slade asks, once he's standing in front of him.

It takes another swallow to force himself to speak, to remind himself that now it's not a plea, he's been asked a _question_ and that means he has to answer. "I want to stay up here with you, Master. Please? Not— Not forever, but can I just— just today?"

Slade reaches out, tilting his head up with fingers under his chin, still studying him. "Tell me why you want that, pet."

He bites his lip, tries to form the thoughts in his head into cohesive sentences and fails. "Silence," he ends up blurting, and then wincing. "I— I would rather be up here than down there, Master, please. It's so quiet down there, I'm _alone_ and I— Please let me stay. _Please_."

Slade gives a quiet chuckle, and he relaxes a little at the sound. Slade's laughs have different sounds, and this one is safe. "Are you lonely, my pet?"

"Yes, Master," he answers, pairing it with a nod small enough that it won't dislodge Slade's hand.

The hand under his chin slides around to run through his hair, and then to lightly grip the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the touch, dipping his head a little bit. "As you wish, my boy. Come on, let's get you washed off, and then you can stay with me while I work."

"Thank you, Master," he immediately says, opening his eyes and managing to dredge up half a smile because Slade insists he be polite.

Slade leans down, wordlessly gathering him into powerful arms, and he closes his eyes again and relaxes into Slade's chest, grateful for the chance to rest and give his legs a break. He almost drifts to sleep while Slade is carrying him, before coming awake when Slade jostles him a little bit. He cooperates as best he can with Slade easing him to stand on his own feet, even if his legs shake a little bit at the renewed strain.

He's in a bathroom, a _real_ bathroom, with tile beneath his feet and a walk-in shower in front of him. He hesitates, stays still as Slade moves forward to turn on the water and tugs a glove off to test the temperature. He almost wishes that he'd kept his eyes open on the walk over, because he's not certain where he is.

He takes a moment to look around, to register the neat line of shaving products and soap beside the sink that's behind him, the large towels hanging on the wall, the toilet with its lid still up. Slowly, he comes to the realization that this is _Slade's_ bathroom, in whatever portion of the bunker his master actually lives in. He's never been here.

"Boy."

He jerks a bit, whipping his head back around to look at Slade, who's stepped back out of the shower. Slade motions him forward, and when he obeys Slade's wet hand presses between his shoulder blades, guiding him over the slightly raised ledge and into the spray. He expects it to be cold — every time Slade's washed him off, it's been with cold water — but when it washes over his shoulders it's almost hot instead.

He lifts his head, shoulders easing down as he tilts his face into the spray and just stands there. It feels so _good_ that he finds himself smiling, _really_ smiling, as he leans into the water.

Eventually Slade coughs, and he startles again. He opens his eyes, looking over to find Slade leaning against the counter of the sink, watching him. For the first time in a while, the fact he's not wearing anything embarrasses him. He ducks his head, reluctantly stepping back so he's out of the spray of water. He immediately feels too cold, and can't help shivering a little bit. He _wants_ to step right back under the spray, but Slade clearly thinks he's taking too long, and he only really needed to rinse off.

He starts to move out of the shower, and Slade shakes his head, making him freeze up in place, unsure what's wanted from him. Slade nods towards the spray, arms crossed but it doesn't really look threatening, just casual.

"Go on, pet. Get clean; enjoy it." Slade's voice might be low, but it's clearly a command.

He dips his head in obedience, stepping back under the spray before he takes an actual look at the recessed shelf in front of him and the bottles on it. When he reaches for the one labeled as shampoo, he takes a glance over at Slade to make sure it's alright before he touches it. When there's no warning sound, or narrowed eye, he cautiously picks it up. Still nothing, and he relaxes and squeezes some of it into his other hand.

Working it into his hair is like heaven, even though he ends up having to go back for more since what he has isn't enough to spread through everything. His hair is longer now, and he doesn't like to think about that too much because that brings up troubling questions about how long he's been here. Questions he doesn't really want to know the answers to. He tries not to think about anything that doesn't focus on the present, because if he did he's pretty sure he would have gone insane a long time ago.

There are a lot of things he's sacrificed for the sake of survival and his own sanity. Pride, dignity, loyalty, shame… Any name that isn't 'boy,' or 'pet,' or whatever else Slade feels like calling him in a day.

He washes the shampoo out, goes back for conditioner and then soap, while it sits. The scent, something vaguely minty, smells sharp and almost overpowering to his senses, and he tries not to breathe too deeply while he's holding it. He sets to work washing all of it off afterwards, and _god_ the way he feels actually, really, _clean_ brings a small smile to his face.

"How long do you want to stay under the water, pet?" Slade asks,

He turns his head to look at Slade, searching for any sign of disapproval as he considers his words. Then, just honestly answering, "Until it gets cold."

Slade laughs, shakes his head. "Well, I'm not going to give you that long." Slade pushes off the counter, straightening up and announcing, "I'll be right back, pet. When I am, you'll get out of there. Clear?"

He nods. "Yes, Master."

He watches Slade leave the room, and then turns back to the water and steps more fully underneath it. He runs his fingers through his hair just to feel it, relaxing under the spray until he wants to just lie down on the tile beneath it and rest there. He almost does, before he hears the tap of boots against the tile and looks up to see Slade walking back in.

It's still reluctant, but he reaches forward to the knob and turns the water off. The cold hits him and he shivers, before Slade is clicking his tongue and beckoning him out.

"Come on, boy," Slade orders, pulling one of the towels from the wall.

He steps out of the shower, and Slade wraps the towel around his shoulders. He closes his eyes, stands still as Slade starts to dry him off, ruffling his hair and then moving down to get the rest of him. He tries not to flush, but is pretty sure he fails, when the towel moves down between his legs. Luckily that only lasts a couple moments, and then there's a rough drag down each of his legs, and then it returns to work at his hair a little more.

"This is getting long," Slade comments, as the towel gets discarded and a hand replaces it, fingers combing through his damp hair. "We'll have to cut it soon enough." It's not a question so he doesn't offer his opinion, just lets Slade lead him over to the sink and press a packaged toothbrush and half-used tube of paste into his hand. He follows the silent order, as Slade stands at his back, doing something with his hair. It takes him a couple seconds, and a glance in the mirror above the sink, to realize that Slade is looping his hair up into a messy half of a bun, contained by one hairband.

The taste of the toothpaste is as overpowering as the soap was, and he winces at the drag of the brush against his gums. Slade's been letting him brush his teeth, but not with toothpaste and not for as long as he should have, so it's a little painful. Nothing compared to what he's already been through though.

"You've grown," Slade continues, one hand lightly gripping his shoulder. "Take a look, pet. You've gained a few inches since we met. Filled out too; not so thin anymore."

He looks up, and realizes as he straightens up that Slade is right. He doesn't look absolutely tiny anymore in comparison to Slade's bulk, not with the extra muscle on his frame and his added height. He's still smaller, and he doubts he'll ever tower as tall as Slade, but he doesn't look like a child anymore. There's a sharpness to his face he doesn't remember from before, a length to his limbs that's unfamiliar now that he's looking at it, and he's never been this defined before. Exhausting, yes, but clearly Slade's brand of training is working, at least physically.

He leans down to spit out the toothpaste and rinse his mouth clean before straightening back up. "Woah," he murmurs, raising a hand to trace over the new lines of his jaw.

Slade lets him look for about a minute, and then squeezes his shoulder and pulls him away from the mirror. He goes without complaint, and Slade leads him out into what's clearly a bedroom. What's clearly _Slade's_ bedroom. The bed is made with a military sort of precision, everything in the room just in its place, and up above the head of the bed there are two mounted, crossed swords that still look dangerously sharp. Slade leads him to the center of the room before letting go, and he takes the hint and stands still as Slade circles around the bed.

The older man gets onto the bed, back against the headboard as he retrieves a laptop from the end table just to his right and sets it in his lap, flicking it open. The snap of fingers, and the point of them down towards Slade's left side, is enough order for him. He heads forward, trying to ignore the ache in his muscles as he slips onto the bed and, guessing without any further hints, lies down at Slade's side. His head is near Slade's hip, body stretched out along the length of Slade's leg and past it. He closes his eyes, presses his face against Slade's armor, and then something warm and soft is settling over him. He pulls his head up, catches sight of a black blanket spread over him, and most of Slade's legs, before his head is pushed back down by strong fingers.

"Relax," Slade orders. "I'm going to work, and you may stay as long as you keep yourself still and mostly silent. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," he answers automatically, and then pauses before adding, "May I ask one question, Master?"

Slade grunts, tugs a little bit at his hair in what's probably supposed to be warning, but nods. "Go ahead, pet."

The words don't come easily, and they're not really _smart_ , but he says them anyway. "Master, this is a lot of rewards in one day. Did I do something right?"

Slade looks down at him, and then slides gentle fingers over his scalp. "You asked to stay, pet."

It's a simple answer, and for a moment all he can answer with is a soft, "Oh." Then, he manages to turn his head to look a bit more fully up at Slade. "I'd like to stay more often, if that's alright, Master?"

"Fishing for more rewards?" Slade teases, and even though it doesn't sound serious, he still shakes his head.

"I don't like to be alone," he admits.

Slade's fingers pause, and then stroke through his hair, down towards his ear and then his neck. "We'll see, pet. If you behave, I don't see a reason why you can't spend more time up here."

He sighs in relief, tilting his head into Slade's hip and rubbing it against the armor a little bit. "Thank you, Master."

* * *

He doesn't have to ask for it the next time, or after that. It becomes fairly regular for him to lie next to Slade as the older man works, fingers occasionally combing through his hair or stroking down along his neck and shoulders. Usually until he falls asleep, slipping in and out of consciousness, curled in against Slade's leg.

He stays still as Slade cuts his hair back down to shorter lengths, and the lack of it against his neck feels strange after so long, makes his head feel lighter. Slade takes to trimming his hair every once in awhile, and he learns to stay still, to let Slade turn his head wherever it's wanted, to stay just where Slade puts him until he's pulled somewhere else. The face that looks back at him from Slade's mirror is almost familiar now, instead of the near stranger that he saw when he first looked.

He gains another inch, gets used to the feeling of Slade standing behind him, of hands on his shoulders and the squeeze of fingers against the back of his neck when he's done a good job. He _lives_ for those moments, for the times when Slade leans down and whispers in his ear how well he's done, how _good_ he's been. There's a dull ache in his chest that he can barely even remember the cause of, and that firm, sincere praise helps to ease it.

Every word of praise makes him feel like he's done something right, like he's cared for. It almost frightens him how easy it is for him to want more of it, but he shoves those thoughts down like everything else that no longer fits into his world.

 _Slade_ is the only part of his life that makes sense anymore. The only source of… of _anything_ that isn't silence and a small square room of concrete. He can't afford to jeopardize that.

Eventually, one day, Slade guides him to sit on the bed instead of lying down. He follows the guide of fingers that tilt his head up, raising his gaze to meet Slade's as the older man stands in front of him. He doesn't move when Slade slides fingers back into his hair, brushing it back from his eyes.

"Do you know how long you've been here, pet?" Slade asks, voice almost uncharacteristically soft. It unnerves him a little bit.

He swallows, curls his fingers into the blanket beneath them. "No, Master," he answers, and then adds on, "I— I try not to think about it."

He can guess at the time it would have taken his hair to grow, or his broken bones to heal, or how long it must have been for him to have grown the inches he has, but he doesn't want to. He's not sure he wants to relate all of this to time, to make it _real_. If he makes this real…

Slade watches him for a moment, and then tells him, "A year. It's been a year."

Something in his chest cracks, and he sucks in a sharp breath, staring up at Slade's mask, at the single eye staring down at him. He grips the blankets tighter, trying to reconcile the thought of… of a _year_. A year trapped inside concrete walls, under the touch of gloved hands and with only a voice that he's learned to read as well as an actual expression to break up the silence and the solitude. A _year_.

He snaps to attention when Slade's other hand rises to that black and orange mask, fingers pressing into hidden catches and there's a soft hiss as it comes loose. He stares as the mask falls away, tracks it as it gets tossed to the bed at his side and then raises his gaze back up to Slade. To his _face_.

Short white hair and a white, carefully trimmed beard. A face that he'd probably guess at late thirties or early forties, with an eyepatch crossing over it and covering where Slade's right eye would have been. That single blue eye, now paired with the rest of a face, looks down at him, studying his reaction. He just stares, until Slade cups his jaw and speaks, soft and low.

"My name is Slade Wilson. As a mercenary, I go by the name Deathstroke."

Distantly, he can register the feeling of his world cracking around him. He takes in a shaky breath, stares up at a real _face_ and feels his shoulders start to shake as well.

"Your… Your name is Slade," he breathes. "You— God, it's your _name_."

" _Who is Slade?!"_ rebounds in his head, circling around in the angry voice of a child he can barely relate to anymore. He shudders, looking at that white hair, the blue eye, the sharp jaw and the actual _shape_ of a mouth that's been speaking, whispering, praising, and criticizing him for… _God_ , for a year.

He gasps in a breath, helpless under the gaze of that eye, and feels the burn of tears in his eyes. At his own _stupidity_ , for never realizing that 'Slade' was more than just some alias. At the fact that it was literally right in front of his face and he never even considered it. At the fact that Slade literally _told them his name_ and he was still so hopelessly ignorant that he didn't see it.

Slade lets go of his jaw, and before he understands the movement the older man is sitting down next to him, gathering him in against a broad chest and cradling his head against one armored shoulder. He trembles, releasing the low, helpless sound of pain as Slade — _Slade_ — holds him, head turning down against his and real lips pressing to the top of his head.

"It's alright," Slade murmurs, holding him a bit tighter and shifting them backwards onto the bed itself. "Let it go, boy. What's already happened is done with; I don't hold you responsible for the failures of your past."

He squeezes his eyes shut as Slade pulls them both down to lie against the bed, and goes willingly when he's pulled into the older man's chest, tears slipping from his eyes as pain swells to the front of his mind. He curls his fingers against the reinforced fabric of Slade's armor, can't get a grip but it doesn't really matter when he buries his head beneath Slade's chin and just _shakes_.

Slade's fingers stroke through his hair, the other arm holding him tight, flat against his back. "That's it," Slade whispers, against the top of his head. "That's my good boy. Just let it all bleed out, pet. I'm here; I have you."

He shakes harder, gasps in a breath that catches hard, and then _screams_ into Slade's chest.

* * *

When he wakes, alone in Slade's bed and feeling hollow and drained, there's a pile of neatly folded orange and black clothing beside him.

He looks at it for a moment, reaches out and touches it to make sure he's not dreaming. It's soft, almost more like pajamas or some kind of workout clothing than anything substantial, even if it's patterned like Slade's uniform. It smells like laundry detergent, freshly clean and neutral, with none of Slade's scent clinging to it, nor anyone else's.

He holds it long enough to make sure it's not going to vanish between his fingers like plumes of smoke, and then slips it on. And when Slade reappears, when he sees the glint of pride in that blue eye and the obvious satisfaction, it feels right.

When Slade presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, gathers him into a loose embrace, and whispers, "That's my boy," the warmth in his chest is foreign and familiar all at the same time. The graze of a hand down the length of his spine comes with the murmur of, "Welcome back, Apprentice; you've earned it," and he presses himself harder against Slade.

"Thank you," he whispers back, against the curve of Slade's neck and shoulder. " _Thank you_."


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome back to the story of pain, and brainwashing, and general unpleasantness! Now with actual sexual content! (Though not yet Sladin. No worries; we'll get there.) Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for : Brainwashing, inappropriate erections, masturbations, and inappropriate fantasies.

* * *

Things get easier. Slade's training isn't any less brutal than it was, but he can handle more of it. He's stronger, tougher, a better combatant than he ever was before Slade took him in. What mistakes he makes still get him disciplined, but that's fine. He deserves it.

Slade's only trying to make him better, and he knows that. He does his very best never to disobey, which earns him a lack of punishment, and he comes to know the difference between discipline and punishment intimately. When he's bad, when he actively and purposefully steps out of line, he's punished. It's painful, humiliating, and he'll beg forgiveness before Slade lets the matter be done. When he makes mistakes, then he's disciplined to ensure that he remembers not to do it again, and that's painful too but it's shorter, he's not expected to seek forgiveness but to understand what he did wrong. Discipline is nothing more than a reminder; it's just another form of teaching.

He's earned himself a name now, he has an identity again and that feels… It feels _so_ good. He is Slade's apprentice, and Slade is his master. Will always be his master.

As he embraces that role, Slade teaches him more things. New forms of martial arts and combat styles, the proper way to handle a knife, ways to use his talent for acrobatics that turn it into a dance of blades, where any angle is one he can strike at. His time in the cell is less now. Slade will sometimes leave him to practice on his own, instead of locking him away, when his master has something else to do, and he still spends most evenings — he assumes they're evenings — stretched out beside Slade's leg on his bed. Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he just listens to the tap of the laptop's keys and relaxes, happy just to be by his master instead of alone and in silence.

Slade's almost kind, now that he knows how to interact with him. He deserves what he earns, and it's as simple as that. Pain, when he's done badly; praise, when he's done well. He earned the uniform that he dons every morning, he _earned_ the books that keep him company when he's alone, and he _earned_ the privilege of the removal of Slade's mask. He's done well.

Eventually, a morning comes where they're sparring, dancing in circles around wooden staves. It's familiar, he _knows_ Slade's styles, and suddenly there's an opening. He doesn't think, he just takes it, moves in, and his staff _cracks_ across Slade's face with every ounce of force he can manage. Slade hits the ground, staff rolling away across the mats, and he chases victory and knocks his master to his back, pressing the end of his staff beneath Slade's chin and forcing it up and back.

There's a moment of stillness, a moment of Slade drawing in a shallow breath as blood beads from a split at the corner of his mouth, before that single blue eye focuses on him again. Slade raises a hand, presses it against the side of his staff but doesn't push it away. He stays still, holding the staff there, coiled to drive it down, to move as soon as he needs to. Just because Slade's on the ground doesn't mean he's the victor. If he lets his guard down for an instant, if he assumes that he's won, he'll be caught unawares and finished off. He's made that mistake before.

"Enough."

He draws away, letting his staff rest at his side, and as Slade touches a gloved hand to the split in his lip and gets to his feet, it hits him that he _won_. He actually, legitimately, _won_. Slade looks down at the shine of blood, gives a little hum of thought, and then lowers his hand and steps forward. He stays obediently still as Slade traces fingers over his cheek, brushing a bit of his hair back and then tilting his chin up with two fingers. He holds Slade's gaze easily enough.

"That was very well done, Apprentice," Slade murmurs, and pride blooms in his chest.

"Thank you, Master," he answers dutifully, through the smile curving his mouth.

Slade squeezes his shoulder for a moment, then orders, "Put those away; this proves you're ready for better things."

He obeys, moving to gather Slade's staff from the ground and then stride across the training room to put them back up on their spots on the wall. "Better things, Master?" he asks, as he turns back around. Slade is kneeling in front of a chest near one corner of the room, one of the ones he's never seen opened before, and certainly never had the masochism to dare opening himself.

He waits at the mat, watching as Slade pulls out what looks a lot like two matching, sheathed _swords_. His gaze lingers on them as his master comes back, and when one of them is pressed into his hands he takes it almost reverently. These ones are smaller than the blades that Slade uses, but pulling it an inch out of the sheath proves that it's real, sharp, steel. These are not toys.

"Did you think I was going to keep you confined to wooden weapons forever?" Slade asks, with a touch of amusement. There's no gap for him to answer before Slade's stepping around to his back, hands sliding down the outside of his arms. "You'll start with one. When I'm satisfied you know how to use it, you can learn to use them both at once."

"Like you," he comments, and Slade squeezes his arms for a moment.

"That's right, my boy. Draw it." He does, pulling it from its sheath with a distinctive rasp of metal against metal. The steel gleams in the light. "This will hurt," Slade says, tone entirely matter of fact. "There's very little room for error with blades, and you _will_ make errors. Follow what I say, and I'll make sure you end up with a minimum of scars. Clear?"

He nods, holding the blade before him. "Yes, Master."

Slade's gloves slip down his arms, gripping his wrists and guiding him to sheath the sword again. It's taken from his hands, as Slade's other arm clasps around his chest, firmly holding him for a moment. "Tomorrow," Slade promises. "I want you fresh when we start training with live blades, Apprentice. For now, we'll do a bit of cool down, and then you can come with me and get washed off." Slade lets him go, giving a soft chuckle, and he turns his head in time to see his master wipe the trickle of blood away from his mouth. "I think we're done with sparring for the day."

If Slade's expression and tone wasn't amused he'd be worried, but the glint in that familiar blue eye is proud, and that makes it easy to relax, to know he's done a good job. The end goal was always to make him a better fighter; eventually he was going to grow enough to be dangerous even to Slade, at least a little. Just because it's a surprise to him doesn't mean his master didn't see it coming.

Slade hooks the swords onto previously empty racks on the wall, and then comes back over to him. He leans into the clasp of a hand against the back of his neck, and gives a soft sigh at the brush of lips to his forehead. "You're getting better every day, pet," Slade murmurs. "It won't be long now."

"Until what, Master?" he asks, even though he knows he probably shouldn't press.

Slade watches him for a moment. "Until you're trained; ready."

He's let go, and then he asks, "Master?" Slade looks back at him, standing still and not necessarily encouraging his questions, but not denying them either. Good enough. "Master… What's the endgame here? What am I supposed to be ready for?"

For a moment he thinks that he's crossed the line, asked something he shouldn't have. Slade steps back towards him, lowers a hand to cup his jaw and tilt his head up.

"To be mine," Slade answers simply, quietly.

He frowns. "I _am_ yours."

"In some ways," is granted. "In other ways, you still belong to other people. I'm going to burn all of that out of you, and when you're ready, you'll truly be mine. Completely. When we get there, you'll understand, but for now don't worry about it. Trust me to take care of you; I'm only doing what's best for you, pet."

"I know, Master."

Slade lets go of his jaw, ruffles his hair with a smirk. "Good boy. Now come on. Three laps around the acrobatics course to cool down and then back to me. Take your time; get the form right."

He smiles, and obeys.

* * *

The blades aren't as difficult as he expected them to be, and for the most part he avoids any particularly bad injuries. Then again, when Slade eventually lets him spar with the live blades — against Slade's — it quickly becomes apparent that he's only not getting hurt because Slade is miles better than he is with them. Slade _would_ be cutting him to ribbons, if his master wasn't good enough to only be hitting him with the flat of the blade. More than enough to bruise, and to _hurt_ , but not to draw blood.

Slade does seem to believe that he's good enough with them, so he doesn't view the defeats as failures but as just another part of training. Until he's good enough to win, he's going to lose. It's just that simple.

A different complication comes to light.

At first he doesn't even register it, hidden under the adrenaline and excitement of spars, but slowly he comes to realize that he's… noticing things. Like the heat of Slade's body at his back, the grind of armor against his skin, how _good_ it feels when Slade's fingers clasp around the back of his neck. He doesn't know when it started, he doesn't know what to _do_ with it, and luckily it's taken out of his hands before he has to decide, and before it gets too bad.

"You've been distracted lately," Slade murmurs to him one night, standing in front of the mirror and holding his jaw to carefully, precisely, scrape a razor across it.

It was a bizarre thing to realize that he was starting to grow very faint shadows of stubble; certainly not every morning, but about once a week there will be enough for Slade to pull him aside and clean it off. It's a weird thing to mark the passage of time by, and yet there's still a childish part of him that's thrilled that he has _stubble_.

Slade's still shaving him, and it's not a direct question, so he doesn't risk answering. At least until Slade finishes, setting aside the razor to be rinsed clean and wiping his face with the cloth set aside for that, and asks, "Would you like to tell me why?"

He swallows, meeting Slade's gaze in the mirror and then dropping away from it. "I— Um…"

He can _feel_ the brush of Slade at his back, and it hasn't really mattered in so long but he's naked, damp from the shower, and his thoughts are straying where they shouldn't go. To the curve of Slade's mouth in a smirk, to the feeling of legs and arms wrapped around him, pinning him down, to the brush of Slade's fingers on his skin and how those _gloves_ feel. It's a dangerous line of thought, but his mind betrays him and then his body follows suit. He flushes, trying to stand carefully still and hoping that Slade doesn't notice how he's firming up. Getting hard like he has dozens of times recently.

"Hmm," is Slade's response, and he knows immediately that his reaction _has_ been noticed.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the brush of Slade's fingers over his arm and mutters, "Sorry, Master. I— I can't—"

"It's alright," Slade interrupts. "You're young, pet; it happens. Have you been getting off?"

He flushes a little harder, but shakes his head. "No, Master. It's only been while—" He has to swallow again, has to force out, "While we're sparring."

Slade's silent for a moment, and then chuckles. He snaps his gaze up in time to catch it when Slade kisses his temple and then says, with a smirk, "I'm flattered, pet. I'll give you some privacy to take care of it; feel free to rinse off afterwards if you need to." One hand squeezes his shoulder, and then Slade says, more seriously, "From now on, I want you to do this at the _very_ least once a week. That should help you have a bit more control."

He can't quite meet Slade's eyes, but he nods and manages not to curl in on himself as he does. "Thank you, Master."

"Of course, my boy." A hand reaches around, taking his chin and pulling it up, prompting him to look up and meet Slade's gaze in the mirror. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," Slade says, voice low but firm. "Humans have needs, and bodies react in strange ways sometimes. We'll work on getting you control of it, but until then, I want you to remember that it's not your fault. It doesn't make you wrong, or bad, or any other thought in that head of yours. Am I understood?"

It's… It's _good_ to hear that.

He lets out a small breath, and nods again. "Yes. I understand, Master."

"Good." Slade lets him go, takes the razor off of the counter, and steps away. "I'll be outside when you're done. Take your time, Apprentice."

He watches Slade go, and then looks down at the slight rise of his erection. The heat of Slade's fingers still lingers on his jaw like the mildest of brands, leaving him with a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that says this is not just a phase or some kind of reaction to the fact he hasn't jacked off in… well, not since Slade took him. It's not like he's imagining Starfire, or Raven, or — hell — even Cyborg or Speedy, like he sometimes used to. It's _Slade_. It's all Slade.

He takes a shallow breath and slowly heads back into the shower. The tile is cool against his back as he leans against one wall, slowly sliding down to sit against the ground, legs slightly spread. Despite the gap in time, it still feels natural to lean his head back against the tile and close his eyes, his right hand slipping down between his thighs. He tries to think of Starfire, of her green eyes and smile, of the curves of her and the orange skin of her waist. For a minute, he manages. It's not as… as _enticing_ as he remembers it being, but it's enough to get him hard underneath his own hand.

But the images slip away from him, like bits of sand. He _tries_ to keep them, but he can't keep her in his head, can't imagine her well enough to be able to relax into it. He _remembers_ , he just…

He gives up on that. Raven's been the subject of his fantasies a few times — even though he always worried that somehow her powers would let her _know_ that — and it's not hard to call to mind the pale length of her legs, the cool amusement in her eyes, the black hair that never quite covered the back of her neck.

That's gone even faster. It's not that Raven's not attractive, but she was never one of his more common fantasies and there's just something that's not right about it now. Something unappealing.

Well, he has other things to think of. He's tried not to because, well, he was never sure how anyone around him would react to it, but there were nights that he gave in to temptation. Speedy was the most common one, from back in the days they'd trained together. Fast, smart, a challenge in a dozen different ways and he'd _loved_ that. He'd been so ahead of everyone else in his age group, among the sidekicks, that it was a relief to meet someone just as good. He doesn't know if Speedy had ever entertained any thoughts about something happening, but he did.

That lasts him longer, thinking about the fight, the grapple of bodies and the thrill, the _excitement_ , of meeting a match. Thinking about the sharp grin and then, even better, that little smirk.

There's something curdling in his gut, something souring the pleasure, and he grits his teeth and makes a sound of irritation, pulling his hand away. Why can't he…?

Alright, mission tactics. Analyze the situation, identify the problem, and then take steps to solve it. This is just another puzzle that he needs to figure out. Slade— Slade _wants_ him to do this so he has to. It needs to happen.

It's not that he doesn't still find them attractive, at least in his mind, but there's something strange about it. Something feels _wrong_ about thinking of any of them here and now, in a way it never has before. Well, he's different in a lot of ways now. Physically he's taller, stronger, bigger, and maybe his mind doesn't know how to figure that into his imagination. He's sure that _they_ are too, but he doesn't know what they've grown into, how they've changed, even what they sound like these days. Picturing himself — his _new_ self — with any of them feels…

It clicks into place in his head like the thunk of a lock.

Oh _god_. He's an adult, he _looks_ like an adult, and in his mind they're still just teenagers. Small and skinny and still all awkwardly long limbs and edges of baby fat, caught in between children and adults and nothing like what he's grown into, what they _must_ have grown into by now too. God, he just _can't_.

His breath catches, and he leans his head back against the shower wall and stares up at the ceiling. What is he supposed to do? He's always needed some kind of picture or fantasy in his head to get off, but everything that he used to use, it's all…

Cyborg. _Yes_. Cyborg was a couple years older than the rest of them, bigger, already an adult and that's the memory he has. Cyborg was never one of his higher fantasies, but that doesn't mean he can't make it work. His mind had gone just about _everywhere_ as a hormonal teenager, wondered what might actually be between those legs even if he was never insensitive enough to ask, so he's got memories to pull from, he can—

The touch of metal next to hot skin — like it was heated by the system inside him — pressed against him, pinning him down, poised over him. Stronger than him, always _so_ much stronger, and that voice was deeper, even laughing in his ear about how he'd actually won a match. Kind eyes and a gentle smile, and it's not hard to imagine Cyborg holding one of his shoulders down, reaching down between his legs and that metal hand would be cool, fingers bigger than his, probably not practiced but eager.

It's a bit of a struggle to impose that over his own hand, but he manages it. Cyborg's always had time for a pat on the back or a ruffle of hair, so he knows what those metal fingers feel like, and he's always been good at sense memory. It's not much different than what his fantasies used to be like.

He leans back into the shower wall, tilts his head back and flicks his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, opening his mouth to pant through it. God, he feels... It's been so long, and it feels all new and so familiar at the same time. It's a bizarre kind of mix of sensation, between the familiar act, and the utterly new feeling of his own hand — _that's_ not the only thing that's bigger — and callouses he never had before. It's strange, but it also still feels _good_ , so he doesn't want to look too closely at any of it. If he thinks about it too much, he might start to really _think_ and that could be the end of everything.

He swallows thickly, closes his eyes so he can go back to his fantasy, and for just a moment he sees the dark skin of Cyborg, sees those kind eyes, but then he thinks about that hand on his shoulder. Firm pressure, the sensation of being pinned on his back, and then it's not dark blue eyes in his mind but a single light one, darker skin turning pale, the grip on his shoulder tightening to push him down harder. _Slade_ stares down at him, smirking, warm fingers lowered between his legs and stroking, expert grip and just how he likes because of _course_ Slade would know exactly what he likes.

He feels a whimper catch in his throat, snaps his eyes back open. The smirk in his mind's eye doesn't go away.

He can't quite make his hand stop, can't quite make _himself_ stop despite the realization that it's Slade in his fantasy, not anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Slade is — _god_ — decades older, his kidnapper, his master, his _trainer_ , it doesn't feel as wrong as trying to picture the rest of his team. And it comes so _vividly_. It's so easy for him to imagine Slade against his back, fingers around him, breath on his neck, voice a low, rich drawl in his ear.

It almost _scares_ him how easy it is to fall into that fantasy, to find himself enjoying the feeling of his own hand, arching away from the wall. Another whimper slides up his throat, imagining Slade's chuckles in his ear, the possessive slide of fingers across his shoulder.

And then he's coming, pressing his skull back against the wall and biting down on a cry, and it's such a _raw_ feeling after so much time. It rushes up and through him like a wave, and he finds himself gasping, faintly trembling. He barely knows what to do so he just takes it, endures, _feels_ every bit of it as if it's years ago and he's back to doing this like some kind of kid just barely figuring it out. In the dark, in the privacy of his own bed or shower, feeling half enticed and half ashamed by the illicit thrill of his own imagination.

He comes down slow, panting, trying to regulate his breathing and the pounding of his own heart. It takes him a long time to ease both things out enough that he feels normal again, except for the satisfied hum lingering in his bones. It's then that he becomes really aware of the come splattered up against his stomach, and the water clinging to the bottom of his feet and ass from sitting in the water that's still at the bottom of the shower. He considers just wiping his stomach down, walking out like that, but there's a smell lingering in his nose and… and a sense of shame that's there too. Just a little twist of it in the pit of his stomach.

So he gets up and turns the shower back on, slipping beneath the spray and reaching for the soap. It's simple enough to scrub off, to wipe the trace of his release from his skin, and it's only about a minute before he's shutting the water off and stepping out again. It's easy enough to dry off with a towel, since he was careful not to get his hair wet again. After that's done he pulls on the clean uniform that Slade brought in with them, carefully deposits the used towel into a dirty laundry bin — where Slade actually _does_ laundry, he doesn't know — and heads out.

Slade's waiting for him, lying on the bed as usual with the laptop open, and without prompting he climbs onto the bed and slides in beside his master. It's comforting to stretch out along the length of Slade's leg, to press his face in against one armored hip and sink back down into that familiar tap of keys.

It takes a couple minutes for Slade to pause, to reach down and run gentle fingers through his hair. "Feeling better, my boy?"

He presses a little bit closer, hesitates a moment, and then nods.

Slade tugs at his hair, hard enough to pull his head back and make him meet the gaze of that blue eye. The tug makes him shiver, as does the warning tone when Slade says, "Pet… Are you telling me the truth?"

He stays where Slade's lightly holding him, and then lowers his gaze. Slowly, he touches Slade's leg with his hand, gathers the words in his mind and finally admits, "Yes, and no. It felt good." He picks at Slade's armor, scrapes his nails over it to hook along the edges. "I thought of you."

Slade's still, and he can't quite bring himself to look up and see what reaction he might have inspired. "Did you? Is that new, or have you always had a darker mind, my Apprentice?"

"New," he murmurs. "I tried to think of the other Titans, like I used to, but… I'm an adult; in my head they're still kids. It wasn't right." Another moment of silence, as Slade strokes through his hair again, and then he bursts out, "I shouldn't have thought of you either. You're— It was wrong. I—"

" _Stop_ ," Slade orders, and his mouth clicks closed, shoulders tensing a fraction. "Oh, my boy…" He hears the laptop click closed, and then Slade is gently tugging on his hair, commanding, "Come here."

He lifts his head, and realizes there's an open spot underneath Slade's arm. It's not somewhere he's been invited to be before, so he pauses for just a moment to make sure he's reading things correctly before he pushes up and slides into the offered spot. Slade's arm hooks around his shoulders, gathering him close, other hand rising to guide his head in to rest at Slade's shoulder, fingers combing his hair away from his face.

"Alright, I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to accept it. Understood, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he replies dutifully.

"It _does not matter_ what you choose to fantasize about, my boy. Absolutely no one has a right to judge you for what you think about, and it's no one's business but your own. Fantasy is not reality; even if you were thinking of Beast Boy and getting off to it, no one would have that right." He shudders, winces, and Slade gives a low chuckle. "I know; the thought disgusts me too. The point is, a fantasy harms no one. Think of them, think of me, think of Superman if you like, but don't be ashamed of it, my boy. You don't have to tell anyone what you thought of."

He hesitates a moment. "Even you?"

"Even me," Slade confirms, with a gentle squeeze of his shoulders. "I'm flattered, but it's not my business unless you want it to be."

He tilts himself further into Slade's heat, and then takes a forcibly deep breath, looks up, and asks, "What if I do want it to be?" Not that he _does_ , but— but it's a valid question. For information, for planning, and in case… In case maybe he wants to do something. Later.

Slade looks down at him, meeting his gaze for several long, silent moments. Somehow, he manages to hold it. "Today," Slade finally says, "I would say take some time and think about that. Consider it a little more. In the future, maybe my answer will be different."

He relaxes, lets his current breath ease out slow, and then lowers his head to rest against Slade's shoulder again. "Thank you, Master."

Slade holds him there until he falls asleep.


End file.
